


The Shark of SoHo

by Silbrith



Series: Caffrey Conversation [50]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Adventure, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27383455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silbrith/pseuds/Silbrith
Summary: An art fraud scheme leads Neal and Peter to forge an unlikely alliance. April 2006.
Series: Caffrey Conversation [50]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/65698
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	1. Money Woes

**Columbia University. Monday evening, April 17, 2006.**

Neal studied the lineup of paintings propped against the walls of his art studio in Watson Hall. Altogether there were eight works. Six of them had a river as the theme. In addition, there were two paintings inspired by the Pre-Raphaelites. Together they were the sum result of his second—and final—year in the visual arts program. In ten days, he'd transport them to the art gallery in Schermerhorn Hall for his master's exhibition. Then, in a month, assuming they'd passed muster, he'd obtain his master's diploma.

The victory, though, would come at a cost. At that time he'd have to bid adieu to the studio. It was destined to become the home of some other aspiring artist.

Neal scanned the crowded space gloomily. He was already missing it and he hadn't even moved out. The voodoo doll Richard had given him over a year ago still dangled from the whiteboard. She gazed at him forlornly as if she didn't want to leave either.

Richard poked his head in. "I'm heading out for coffee. You want anything?"

"How about a dose of extra mojo for the voodoo doll to keep away evil spirits at the exhibition?"

"That doll's already powerful magic," Richard said confidently. "Gabrielle made it for me in New Orleans. Aidan's convinced that the doll I gave him is what powered our fencing team to an unbeaten season."

"Do you think it will help me find a studio I can afford?"

Richard made a face. "In Manhattan? I better give you a second doll. Even then, what you're asking for may be beyond the power of voodoo."

"Have you figured out what you're going to do?" Richard and his partner Travis lived in a two-bedroom co-op in the Village. In comparison with Neal's loft, the square footage made it seem like a palace, but Travis's electronics didn't leave much space for anything else.

"We discussed it over the weekend. We'd converted the second bedroom into a joint workspace but it's already stuffed to the gills. We decided to sacrifice the living room as well. If we line the walls with work tables, there'll still be enough space for one couch and a couple of TV trays." Richard smile. "Let this serve as a warning to wear jeans next time you come to dinner. We may have to eat Japanese style on cushions." He glanced around at Neal's painting paraphernalia. "Have you found any suitable location for your art supplies?"

"Not yet. I investigated a few studio spaces that are way beyond my budget. I suppose since Sara's still in London, I could cram everything into the loft."

"And constantly breathe paint fumes?" Richard shook his head. "Not recommended." 

"What's not recommended?" Myra demanded, sticking her head into the open doorway. "Obsessing over your art before the exhibition? I'll second that."

Neal's art advisor had become decidedly friendlier over the past few months, only rarely living up to her reputation as the Impaler. Neal didn't know if the transformation was due to the nearness of graduation or because she was pregnant, but he gave it an enthusiastic thumbs up.

The pleasure of having Myra as a mentor had become yet another reason graduation would be bittersweet. Should he consider using his work at the Bureau as an excuse to not exhibit? Surely Peter could come through with a painfully tedious mortgage case to work on. Then Neal could take another year to graduate. But if he acted on the thought, he'd be responsible for the tuition since his scholarship would end in May, thus getting back to the state of his bank account.

Neal propelled himself out of the financial abyss opening beneath him to focus on Myra who was discussing the schedule for delivering their works to the art gallery. "You are responsible for writing extensive notes for each work," she reminded them. "I expect to receive them from you no later than Friday. I'm sure I don't need to remind you of their importance. They'll be used by the panel of experts reviewing your creations."

Neal swallowed, the financial abyss having now been replaced by a time vortex. This was also his week to teach a workshop on Turner. Richard had become glassy-eyed. Writing was a painfully slow process for him.

Myra turned to Richard. "Are your sculptures ready for review?"

"Just about."

"You have fifteen minutes to finish your preparations. I'll come by your studio next."

Why did Myra want more time with Neal? She'd signed off on his paintings last Friday. Had she changed her mind? If she wanted him to rework any of them, he might as well go ahead and throw himself into the abyss.

Richard exited the studio. As he closed the door, he tossed Neal a sympathetic wince. He must have had the same thought.

"Take a seat," Myra said. "I'd like to consult with you on a personal matter."

At her words, the vortex snapped shut and a rainbow broke out. Neal morphed from frustrated art student to helpful consultant in the blink of an eye.

"You'll graduate next month but as you know our friendship won't end then," she said. "I like to maintain connections with my former students."

Neal nodded. "And I'm very grateful." Myra had already explained the networking assistance she provided for recent graduates. In addition, her partner Britta Forsberg included some of the works of former students at her art gallery. Neal had already sold a couple of paintings at the gallery.

"One of them is Teresa Ramirez," Myra continued. "She's working as a waitress while waiting for the world to acknowledge her undoubted talent."

"I've seen some of her paintings at Britta's gallery," Neal said. "At the March reception, Teresa and I discussed her attempts to gain more recognition."

"Her Puerto Rican heritage is evident in her works. I'm sure in time she'll gain the acclaim she deserves. Teresa lives in the South Bronx and commutes into Harlem to work as a waitress. I thought about that new SoHo project for low-cost artist housing. I believe your cousin's boyfriend Eric is the project's architect?"

"That's right," Neal said. He'd noticed Myra talking with Henry and Eric at the reception. "Did you discuss it with Eric?"

She nodded. "I remembered Eric from last year's exhibition. He was one of the few to make a purchase." She smiled. "Not something I'm likely to forget."

"Me neither," Neal said. That had been the first sale of a painting he'd made that wasn't a forgery. Henry had commissioned the purchase for his loft.

"Do you know if the complex is accepting applications?" Myra asked.

"No, but I can find out. Would you like me to contact Teresa directly with the information?"

"Please. I'd appreciate anything you can do to help. Teresa attended Columbia on a full scholarship but even so she was barely able to scrape her way through the program. She's providing financial support for her family who are still in Puerto Rico. I would hate her to give up on her art, and I'm afraid she may be in danger of doing so."

Talking with Myra made Neal's struggles seem petty. Others weren't relying on him for support. As a last resort, he could even ask to borrow one of Mozzie's safe houses. Surely he didn't need so many now.

When Neal contacted Eric, he discovered that the application forms were ready. Acceptances were based on need and Eric thought Teresa stood a good chance of being accepted. Henry offered to bring the forms with him when he met Neal for Tuesday Tails the following day. The lunchtime romp with Henry's puppy Splash in a neighborhood park had become a weekly tradition.

Afterward, Neal called Teresa to relay the news. She was so excited, she invited him to her apartment to look at her art. Flushed with a sense of accomplishment, Neal vowed to stop whining about his own situation. In his experience, good news usually attracted more of the same.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Henry gave himself a high mark in planning the romp. Before hitting the food truck, he and Neal had raced Splash around Roosevelt Park. He wasn't thinking of himself. Splash was just as fond of Mongolian barbecue as he was. Splash preferred the beef skewer while he usually went for lamb. It was their upscale reward for the workout.

"My treat," he told Neal as they waited in line. "What kind of meat do you want?"

Neal hesitated for only a second as he looked into Splash's pleading eyes. "Make mine beef so I can share."

"She's going to have her own skewer, you know. And I warn you upfront, she's not into sharing." Henry hesitated then arched an eyebrow. "I thought you might order the squid."

He laughed, a good sign. "As a small step toward vanquishing Cthulhu?"

Henry shrugged. "A symbolic gesture, perhaps." Rolf Mansfeld's partner was silent no longer—not after the attempt on Neal and Peter's lives in Boston. Mozzie had dubbed the accomplice Cthulhu. Personally, Henry thought it worked as a nickname. Like a sea monster, the partner lurked below the ocean surface and you never knew where its tentacles would emerge or who it would seize. But the underwater references employed both by Rolf and by the Arkham Round Table writing group were having an unhealthy influence on Neal. He'd admitted to feeling uneasy about octopuses and their tentacled kin.

"I can't eat squid anymore," Neal confessed.

"Are you having more nightmares?" He'd noticed Neal looked tired, but Henry figured the lack of sleep was due to the crunch of his course load at Columbia. His mom's death a couple of weeks ago couldn't have helped.

Neal smiled. "If anything, it's the opposite."

"Explain yourself," Henry demanded. "Are you telling me that squids give you sweet dreams?"

Neal shrugged. "In a way. You remember I told you I'd embarked on a program to befriend cephalopods. Mozzie helpfully provided me with a wealth of research. He demonstrated that I should be calling myself an octopus."

"Turn yourself into Cthulhu? Mozzie has some off-the-wall ideas, but even for him this is a stretch."

"Just listen for a minute. Octopuses have three brains. They're masters of camouflage. Mozzie claims they're great puzzle solvers, and to top it off, they're capable of regeneration." Neal smiled as if he couldn't be happier talking about the tentacle-endowed creatures. "That gives a new definition to faking your death."

Henry chuckled. "Okay, you're both masters of deception. Has your program worked?"

"Not completely," Neal acknowledged, "but they're starting to seem friendlier."

Henry waited till they'd placed their orders before following up. Tuesday Tails was proving to be a useful opportunity not just to catch up with their lives but to talk shop. The Arkham Round Table currently met on Mondays, so the next day Henry could update Neal about plot strategy. Neal used to complain that no one in the group would share details about upcoming stories with him. Those days were over.

Once they had their skewers and drinks, they grabbed an unoccupied bench in the park.

"You may have to wait a while longer to see your new underwater pals in the Arkham Files stories," Henry said. "Tricia advised our group to not pursue any aquatic threads. She doesn't want to alert Rolf that we've connected him to the theft of the sea map last month."

"Did Diana agree?" Neal asked skeptically. "Last I talked with her, she couldn't wait to inject Cthulhu into the plot. I suspect visions of his underwater prison in R'lyeh are already dancing in her head."

"She has no choice," Henry said, stripping off a piece of beef for Splash. Eric had trained her to sit quietly till she was given her treat, but when the puppy was with Henry, she knew draping her muzzle over his knee worked wonders.

"How far along is the next story?"

"Diana already had it outlined. She'd intended it to be the start of a thread about a rival to Azathoth. Now it's back to the drawing board."

"I know Tricia was keen to include someone to represent Rolf's silent partner. Has the part been cast?"

"Not yet. I'd already suggested that the evil priestess your Arkham counterpart encountered in ancient Egypt could play a role. I noticed a glint in Diana's eye when I mentioned her. Perhaps Diana is thinking about making the priestess her evil doppelganger?"

"Thanks for the warning," Neal said with a laugh. "It's a good thing Astrena is no longer haunting my nights. I prefer to confront only one evil witch at a time."

"I'm glad to see you handle it so well."

"Why shouldn't I? My paintings are done. Myra signed off on them yesterday. Are you and Eric going to be at the reception?"

"We wouldn't miss it. Between White Collar and friends and family, your fan club will be out in force." Undoubtedly Neal wished Sara could be there as well, but he'd advised her to wait. The exhibition would still be open during graduation weekend. The relatives in Baltimore would also miss the opening reception. They would come the following weekend when they'd also be able to attend the premiere performance of Angela's musical.

Neal didn't seem as excited about the reception as Henry thought he'd be. Was he having second thoughts about telling the others to hold off?

"It's quite an accomplishment," Henry said. "Everyone is very proud of you. Myra didn't rain on your parade, did she?"

"No, I'm just coming to terms with the transition. Columbia provides a secure haven for artists. Making it in the outside world after graduation can often wind up being a harsh awakening to a much bleaker reality. Myra's afraid that's what happened to Teresa."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

After work, Neal took the subway up to a desolate section of the Bronx. He'd stopped to change out of his suit into jeans and an old jacket before the trip—much more appropriate than the three-piece suit and fedora he'd worn at the office. Teresa was a petite woman who looked younger than her years and wore brightly colored clothes. How difficult had it been to adjust to her grim surroundings? The address she provided was on a street of tenement buildings with storefronts on the ground floors. Her building had a Latin grocery store and deli.

Neal buzzed her apartment number. When the door was unlocked, he walked up four flights to her floor. The pungent smells of garlic, cumin, and onions permeated the building. Neal overheard chatter in Spanish and Haitian French, along with the punchy nasal tones he associated with the Bronx.

"I realized I should have met you at the subway stop," Teresa said when she greeted him at the door. "I hope you didn't have any trouble finding my place?" By the anxious look she gave him, he suspected she referred more to the people on the street than finding her apartment. She'd only seen him at the art gallery. She had no way of knowing he'd frequented his share of tough districts.

"It's a fascinating neighborhood," he assured her diplomatically and was glad to see her face relax. "A United Nations of languages. I heard Swahili being spoken at the fruit stand on the corner. Have you lived here long?"

"It's been my home since I started Columbia," she said. "A friend used to share the apartment with me but she moved to Boston last year. It's not the safest area, but this is the only place I can afford that has enough room for my canvases."

Teresa's two-bedroom apartment was crammed with paintings in various stages of completion. They shared the living area with one badly frayed couch adorned with duct tape in various bright colors. Teresa liked working on large canvases. Just paying for art supplies was likely a major challenge. There wouldn't be much if any money left over for fixing up her apartment.

As she showed Neal her latest works, he was impressed by her range. The vibrant colors were in stark contrast to the grimy palette of the building she lived in. "You could become the Georgia O'Keeffe of Puerto Rico," he said in all sincerity. He understood why Myra praised her potential.

Teresa slanted him an odd look and hesitated.

"I meant that as a compliment," he added.

"And I'm flattered. It's just . . . you're not the first one to mention that, and I'd never thought to compare my art to hers." She made a circular motion with her hand rising toward the ceiling. "Georgia's floating among the clouds. I feel like I'm still mired in the mud."

"Not the way you're painting," Neal assured her. "Before long you'll be soaring too."

"I hope so." Teresa clasped the application packet Neal had given her even tighter. "I'm taking this as a positive omen."

"You said someone else compared you to O'Keeffe," Neal prompted.

She nodded. "Lawrence Sheffield. I met him at the reception."

"I'm in good company then." Sheffield owned an art gallery in SoHo. Several prominent New York artists had exclusives with him.

"Mr. Sheffield invited me to his gallery," she confided.

That was surprising and made Neal a little envious. Sheffield didn't normally interest himself in artists who hadn't already acquired stellar reputations. "Does he want to display any of your paintings?"

"No, but it's almost as exciting," she said. "He commissioned me to try my hand at reproducing a couple of O'Keeffe's paintings. He said he was inspired by Britta's example and wanted to do more to help young artists. He thought the discipline would help my technique, and he's right. My first attempt wasn't very good, but now it's hard to tell mine from the original. Mr. Sheffield is beyond generous!"

 _I bet_. Neal's suspicions were growing by the minute.

"He supplied me with paints like O'Keeffe used and even provided excellent photos of her art to work from."

"I'd love to see what you achieved."

Teresa displayed no hesitation in showing them to him. Didn't she realize what was happening? The works she copied were two well-known paintings, _Jack-in-the-Pulpit_ and _Gray Lines with_ _Black, Blue, and Yellow_.

"You've mastered O'Keeffe's brushwork, not an easy feat," he commented.

She blushed at his praise. "Mr. Sheffield said that was what initially attracted him to me. Our styles are somewhat similar. Normally, I wouldn't consider painting copies, but Mr. Sheffield claims he has a buyer who's willing to purchase high-quality reproductions. Mr. Sheffield assured me, that there was no chance that I'd be accused of making forgeries. And with his outstanding reputation, I'm not worried. The money is enough to tide me over so I don't have to spend every waking moment as a waitress. Mr. Sheffield believes he'll soon have additional orders for me."

_He must be licking his chops._

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Teresa's fairy godfather remained on Neal's mind throughout the subway ride back to June's house. Was he being overly suspicious? Teresa was right about Sheffield's reputation. His gallery was one of the most prestigious in New York, and there was no doubt that Georgia O'Keeffe's works were extremely popular. In the current seller's market, perhaps expert reproductions could command a high price.

Georgia never signed her works, so Teresa wasn't faced with the issue of counterfeiting her handwriting. As long as the bill of sale identified the work as a reproduction, it would be a legitimate transaction. Teresa should sign the canvas, but had she? When Neal suggested it, she remained non-committal.

How much was Neal being influenced by what happened to him in high school? His art instructor had requested he copy a painting by Degas. Neal later discovered the man tried to sell it as an authentic work. That experience had been his introduction to the dark underbelly of the art world. Something similar appeared to be happening to Teresa.

When he returned to the loft, a streak of light under the door indicated he had a visitor, and the strains of a _Don Giovanni_ aria alerted him to the caller's identity. Mozzie didn't drop in as much as he used to, but his girlfriend Janet was in the midst of final preparations for a new clothing-as-art exhibit at the Cecile Gallery. Despite his love of the shadows, Mozzie was at heart very much a social animal. Neal looked forward to hearing Mozzie's take about Sheffield. It was a safe bet that Neal already knew the answer.

"What's up?" he asked as he opened the door. His attention was immediately drawn to the dinette table, newly littered with photos and copies of old newspaper articles. Mozzie's laptop was powered on. It looked anachronistic next to the documents on the table.

"Cow tunnels, mon frère!" Mozzie had made himself at home, helping himself to a spicy Zinfandel from Neal's collection. He sighed expansively. "Ah, New York, what a marvelous city you are!"

Neal poured himself a glass while there was still some wine left. Cow tunnels were a new phenomenon. Had Mozzie abandoned his quest to find the Tudor Crown to focus on the cowboy side of Manhattan? "Care to explain?"

"Joseph Bassus provided the clue."

At the name's mention, Neal realized the Tudor Crown remained on the top of Mozzie's stack of interests after all. He'd become convinced that the Illuminati had hidden the fabled lost crown of Henry VIII. Mozzie had managed to uncover a probable descendant to a member of the Illuminati named Joseph Bassus. The trail had apparently gone cold when Bassus was murdered in 1982, but Mozzie was undeterred, arguing that his murder was likely committed by someone else also searching for the crown.

"I succeeded in locating an aunt of the late lamented Joseph," Mozzie continued. "She's a prickly octogenarian but I was able to appease her with liberal helpings of honey wine." He gestured toward the photos. "These are from Joseph's collection. She'd kept a strongbox of files belonging to him. The woman is quite a packrat." He paused to sigh. "If only I'd had time alone in her house, the treasures I might have unearthed . . . But revenons à nos moutons"—he snickered—" or even better _,_ à nos vaches."

When Mozzie started making jokes in French, it was a clear signal he was in a good mood. Neal settled back to be entertained about why his friend was herding cows rather than sheep.

"I've long been drawn to the possibility that the crown lies hidden somewhere in Manhattan's network of tunnels," Mozzie confided as if he were revealing a state secret. "But after an exhaustive search of the tunnels underneath Columbia University, I was forced to conclude the location lies elsewhere."

If Mozzie had relinquished the search, Neal wasn't about to argue the point.

"It was my friend Joseph who pointed the way. Do you know where this was taken?" Mozzie held up a grainy photo of several cows on a street. Two men on horseback appeared to be their wranglers.

"It looks like a scene from somewhere in Texas," Neal said, suspecting a trick.

"Appearances can deceive. This was photographed in Manhattan. As late as the early twentieth century, cattle were ferried in from New Jersey and then herded up Twelfth Avenue to slaughterhouses in Upper Manhattan." Mozzie's expression turned grim. "I empathize with my late bovine friends. It's enough to make me give up eating beef. And when I find the crown, I intend to donate part of the proceeds to animal rights groups."

"And what does this have to do with tunnels?" Neal prompted before Mozzie wandered off once more in search of greener pastures.

His smile returned. "Manhattan ingenuity! Engineers built underground tunnels for the cattle, thus freeing the streets from congestion and cow patties while dashing the hopes of any free-spirited cow yearning for adventure. My kindred spirit Joseph must have realized an abandoned cow tunnel would be the ideal hiding place for the treasure. Remember, we believe Charles Ireton had the crown in his possession. The Columbia University tunnels would be the logical choice, of course. But Joseph reasoned they were too obvious. The man was obsessed with protecting the crown for the Illuminati, of which there were only a few dedicated adherents left. Their situation was not dissimilar to the Men of Letters."

As Mozzie droned on, conspiracies clumped together into an avalanche. Charles Ireton had been a resident of a nineteenth-century insane asylum built on land that would later become the campus for Columbia University. Ireton was acquainted with the Illuminati since Mozzie had discovered a list of names in Illuminati code hidden in Ireton's secret bunker. But there was absolutely no known connection between them and the Men of Letters, a secret group of scholars dedicated to destroying monsters.

"My Marvin Goldblum alias should be perfect for the task at hand," Mozzie said enthusiastically. "As a city building inspector, I should be able to obtain access to the historical records of New York's underground. Somewhere the crown is waiting for me! And that reminds me, I should check on my current employment status. Marvin may have been promoted." He turned to his laptop and his fingers flew over the keyboard.

Neal cut his sigh to a minimum. There wasn't any point in quizzing Mozzie about Sheffield until he surfaced for air. Instead, he retrieved his book on O'Keeffe from the bookcase. He'd written a paper about her abstract works for a class last year. Seeing Teresa's paintings sparked an idea for a master's workshop.

He took the book and glass of wine to the couch, letting Mozzie reign over the dinette table, and settled in to read.

"Why are you interested in Georgia O'Keeffe?" Mozzie demanded in an aggrieved voice as if Neal's time would be much better spent studying cow tunnels.

"Are you familiar with Lawrence Sheffield's gallery?" Neal asked, preferring to deflect for the moment.

"Sheffield Fine Art? Of course. It's close to the Cecile Gallery where Janet will have her new exhibition. You will be at the opening reception on Friday, won't you? El's catering it. The entire Arkham Round Table will be there and White Collar too." He jotted a note, muttering something about wine supplies.

"I wouldn't miss it," Neal promised. "Have you ever heard of anything shady in connection with Lawrence Sheffield?"

Mozzie's eyes widened behind his glasses. "What have _you_ heard?" When Neal told him about Teresa's connection, Mozzie's reaction was the same as his had been. "I place the probability of legitimate transactions as very low, but I haven't heard anything specific about Sheffield. I could ask around."

"I'd appreciate it."

Mozzie nodded and looked expectantly at Neal. Surely he wasn't waiting to hear reimbursement details? He and Neal had worked out the exchange of favors long ago, with the Bureau providing more than enough in commissions for Mozzie to always be a satisfied consultant.

Mozzie cleared his throat. "June is in the downstairs study, struggling with the major plot revisions Tricia requested. She could benefit from your advice."

Neal promptly rose, scooping up his glass and the bottle. "My pleasure. June will appreciate that you let us finish the wine."

It was clear Mozzie didn't want Neal to hear his calls, meaning that Mozzie was contacting sources Neal knew nothing about. Neal was happy to let him keep his secrets. Mozzie was generous with his acquired knowledge, but he protected his network of sources. They were more valuable to him than even his manuscript collection.

* * *

_Notes: Thanks for reading! Please join me next week for Chapter 2: Tick-Tock. The Shark of SoHo has 3 chapters which I'll post weekly on Wednesday. Those cow tunnels Mozzie discovered are real. My Pinterest board has a couple of pins of them._

_Many thanks to the awesome Penna for beta edits. Neal's unhappy history with an unscrupulous teacher came from her story "By the Book" and served as inspiration for this tale. I've written an[introduction to The Shark of SoHo](https://pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com/2020/11/caffrey-conversation-shark-of-soho.html) for the blog this week. _

_Penna and I are both participating in NaNoWriMo this year by being NaNo rebels. We've challenged ourselves to write 20,000 words for fanfic projects this month. I provided a few clues about the subject of my fanfic in my blog post: "[Works in Progress: Fashion and Thievery](https://pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com/2020/10/works-in-progress-fashion-and-thievery.html)." Penna's latest post is a tribute to Sean Connery and the inspiration he's provided to the series. The title is "[Caffrey Conversation: Bonds. James Bonds](https://pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com/2020/11/caffrey-conversation-bonds-james-bonds.html)." Many of you know we'd picked him as our dream actor for the Graham Winslow role. _

_Story Visuals and Music:[The Shark of SoHo](https://www.pinterest.com/silbrith/the-shark-of-soho/) board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website: [pinterest.com/caffreycon](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)_  
_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: [pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com)_  
_Twitter:[@silbrith](https://twitter.com/silbrith)_

_**Background on the Caffrey Conversation AU for new readers** : This series was created by Penna Nomen and begins with her story Caffrey Conversation. Our blog has a list and short summaries for all the stories in chronological order. The primary difference from canon is that Neal was never sent to prison and the characters are several years younger. The personalities of canon characters (Elizabeth, Mozzie, Diana, Jones, Hughes, June, and Sara) are the same. _

_Peter recruited Neal in 2003 when he was 24. In the fall of 2004, he entered Columbia University's graduate program in art as a part-time student. In the spring of 2005, Peter and Neal were appointed to the Interpol art crimes task force. The work on the task force is part-time and places additional emphasis on art crimes for the White Collar team. In canon, Neal's only relatives to be mentioned are his father and mother. In ours, his mother Meredith has a twin sister named Noelle who is a psychologist. Noelle married Peter's older brother Joe during the 2004 Christmas holidays. Henry Winslow is Noelle's son and nearly three years older than Neal. He works at a private investigation and security company named Winston-Winslow (usually referred to as Win-Win). Neal has one other cousin, Angela, who is the daughter of Noelle and Meredith's deceased brother. Working with the White Collar team are two non-canon characters: Travis Miller, a technical expert, and Tricia Wiese, a profiler. Neal's friends at Columbia include fellow grad students Richard and Aidan._


	2. Tick-Tock

**June's Mansion. April 18, 2006. Tuesday evening.**

Neal jogged down the stairs to June's office, leaving Mozzie to his calls. The oak-paneled study was in the back of the ground floor and overlooked a small garden. The tulips were in bloom but their colors were currently muted shadows, illuminated only by small ceramic garden lanterns.

The study was furnished with twin Chesterfield sofas upholstered in midnight-blue velvet. They faced each other in front of the fireplace. June was seated on one of them. An open spiral notebook filled with notes was on her lap desk. When Neal stepped into the room, her frown of concentration turned into a smile.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you," he said. "Mozzie's upstairs. He thought you'd like company."

"He sent you away to have privacy," she said knowingly.

Neal smiled. "You know him well. I rescued my bottle of wine. Would you like to join me?"

"Please. There are some glasses on the serving cart." She capped her pen. "I can't begin to count the number of times he's requested me to leave the room. Anyone would think this is his house." She smiled. "This isn't a complaint. I love to have Mozzie drop in at all hours of the day and night, and I simply don't know how I'd manage without you living here. This would be a big, lonely house without you two."

Her face grew a little wistful. Did she think he was planning to leave? Or, like his grandparents in D.C., was she contemplating the prospect of an eventual move? June had once mentioned that her daughters had no interest in living in New York City. They probably hoped she'd move closer to them.

"I'm not going anywhere," he assured her, setting the glass of wine beside her on the end table. He took a seat on the sofa opposite her. "Not until you kick me out for tenants who can afford to pay what you should be charging me."

She laughed. "What you give me is priceless! Who knows? Maybe you'll even provide a solution for Diana's story." She gave a small sigh as she glanced down at her notes.

Normally obtaining spoilers from June was more difficult than breaking into Fort Knox, but this was one time he didn't need to bother. He already had the inside track from Henry.

"I heard about the requested revisions." Neal didn't mention Henry. Like Mozzie, he protected his sources. "I gather Cthulhu will have to languish in his watery grave a while longer."

She nodded sadly. "And we had such exciting plans. I'd helped Diana add water imagery as foreshadowing. We were going to elaborate on the pool of the evil priestess and the Osireion in _Sands of Abydos_. Now it's back to the drawing board."

"Perhaps you could repurpose them. Or . . ." Neal's words trailed off as if an idea was popping into his head. "Instead of water, you could focus on air."

June's brow furrowed. "I don't follow you, dear."

Neal set down his glass and leaned forward. "You've already hinted at it. My character is drawing energy through the air from algolnium. Isn't it time to take him to the next level?"

"Eureka!" Mozzie charged into the room, his face flushed with excitement. "I should send a bouquet of roses to your starving artist friend. She may have stumbled upon the identity of the Shark of SoHo!"

"Who's the Shark of SoHo?" Neal asked. His curiosity about the mystery person trumped the idea about dragons he wanted to seed for Arkham Files.

"Is he related to the Dentist of Detroit?" June's expression darkened. "That name is associated with some horrific crimes."

"I thought he was just a myth," Neal admitted. "It's hard to believe one man could do everything he supposedly accomplished." He looked to Mozzie for clarification.

Mozzie waved away their questions. "Forget the Dentist! Focus, people. I said the _Shark_ of SoHo. Sharks don't go to the dentist. They don't need to."

"No, but they could visit Cthulhu." June's eyes took on a glazed look as she jotted down a note.

Neal's inner groan was matched by Mozzie's external rumble. "Neal, I'm surprised you haven't heard of the underwater predator. For years rumors have circulated of a man who sells artworks to the Mafia."

"That's a known problem," Neal retorted, his stung pride demanding redress. "I simply hadn't heard of that overly flamboyant expression." Only last week Interpol had issued a bulletin about the uptick in art trafficking. Criminal groups were using art masterpieces as a type of currency, often in exchange for drugs or firearms.

"I grant that my contact likes to employ vivid imagery. The salient point is that he heard the Shark of SoHo has been providing Raymond Pasolini with artworks." Mozzie tapped his nose. "Sheffield and the Shark of SoHo could share more than alliterative names."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"The Shark of SoHo . . ." Peter exhaled as he pulled into a parking spot in front of his house. He supposed he should be grateful they didn't have the Dentist of Detroit to face. The crime boss was rumored to have killed at least one Bureau agent. In comparison, a criminal accused of selling artworks to the Mafia shouldn't be as dangerous.

But that _shouldn't_ came with a qualifier. Nothing involving the Mafia could be taken for granted, especially when the paintings were suspected to be forgeries. The Shark of SoHo could be harpooned out of existence by the Mafia before the Bureau had accumulated enough evidence for the charges to stick.

Jones and Travis were in charge of surveillance. There wasn't enough evidence for a wiretap, but Sheffield's movements were being monitored in hopes they'd catch a lucky break. Neal was right to be suspicious of the gallery owner's motive. It undoubtedly triggered bitter memories of how Neal was taken advantage of in high school. If his art teacher hadn't been dirty, his life would likely have taken a radically different course. Hopefully, they could prevent Teresa from being trapped in a life of crime.

As he jogged up the front stoop, Peter mulled over his private puzzle. Why did Sheffield's name sound familiar? There was nothing about the man in the Bureau database. Peter had searched the internet. It was conceivable his mom owned some serving pieces made from Sheffield plate, but he was unaware of it. 

Sheffield had been at the gallery reception, but Peter hadn't talked with him. He vaguely recalled seeing him there. The photo Diana had obtained showed a middle-aged man with sandy-brown hair and piercing brown eyes. The man had a commanding presence. Peter could see where a young artist would easily fall under his spell. In some respects, Sheffield reminded him of Klaus Mansfeld.

Satchmo greeted him at the door. Peter could smell the delectable aroma of ham loaf in the oven but there was no sign of El.

"Where's our mistress, Satch?" he asked, stooping to scratch behind the Lab's ears.

"I'm upstairs," El called out from the staircase. "You're just in time."

For what? If it was to eat ham loaf, sign him up. El was likely in the spare room they were converting to her study. He'd enlarged the window and installed bookcases but they'd yet to be painted. Or perhaps she had something other than remodeling in mind?

Ever since they'd decided to start a family, their evenings had become much more stimulating. El seemed to delight in surprising him, and he'd come up with some well-received ideas too.

Was she wearing one of those negligees she'd bought last year for their anniversary? Cocktails in the boudoir? Peter took the steps two at a time, Satchmo at his heels.

At the top of the stairs, he paused. Time to be suave. What was that little trick Neal did with his eyes? Peter relaxed his hips, adding a little swagger.

"Hon, I'm in the study," El called out.

Okay, not the boudoir. The study was a work in progress—just like their attempts to have a child. The symbolism was right. The ambiance was a little lacking, but he could work with it.

When he stepped into the room, his heart deflated just a smidgeon. No negligee. El was in jeans and a sweatshirt, her hair bunched into a ponytail. She was standing at the window with an array of paint swatches in front of her.

"At last!" she exclaimed. "I can't decide between cloudburst teal and Jamaica Bay blue for the wood trim. Give me your honest opinion. If you don't like either one, I have twenty others to choose from."

Peter quickly switched gears and dutifully studied the paint squares, basically agreeing with whatever she said. Once that crisis was resolved, they headed downstairs for ham loaf and beer. Peter would likely need second helpings of both after surviving paint consultations. Why hadn't she told him to bring Neal along? He would have solved her quandary in an instant, and they could have immediately moved to dinner since there clearly wasn't anything more exciting on tap.

Peter leaned on the counter as he watched El remove the loaf from the oven. She'd laid slices of pineapple on top. They'd been glazed with ham goodness. His mood was improving by the second.

"Got a question for you," he said. "What does the name Sheffield mean to you?"

Her mouth pursed into a moue as she considered his question. If she weren't holding the hot loaf pan, he'd have taken her into his arms.

"Lawrence Sheffield is what comes immediately to mind." At his startled exclamation, she smiled. "Don't worry, he's not an old boyfriend. Lawrence owns an art gallery in SoHo. The Cecile Gallery had recommended me to him and I catered a reception at his gallery last summer. I probably told you about the event." She gave a slow sigh. "I was given carte blanche. It was one of the most elegant affairs I've ever thrown. I hope he'll hire me for another event." She paused to stare at him. "Why are you looking at me that way? Is there something I should know?"

"I'm in the dark almost as much as you," Peter explained. "We're working a case where Sheffield's a potential suspect in selling art forgeries, but he's only a person of interest at this point. You didn't happen to notice any paintings of sharks in the gallery?"

She gave an uneasy laugh. "I don't think so. Was I supposed to?'

Peter groaned. "Make that a definite maybe. Mozzie thinks he may be the Shark of SoHo." Whenever a wild theory was involved, Peter always found it easier to blame it on Mozzie. "Were you at Sheffield's reception?"

"Yes, I wanted to make sure everything ran smoothly. I'd hoped the caché of managing the event would lead to other opportunities, and it has. I wish I could be of more help to you."

"Would you mind looking at a few mug shots? His clients possibly include known Mafia bosses. There's a chance they were at the reception."

After dinner, Peter powered up his work laptop and despite the poor odds, El was able to identify one of the Mafia leaders as being present—the same man Mozzie had fingered. El remembered Raymond Pasolini because was quite taken with her savory focaccia rolls. Yet another circumstantial piece for the puzzle.

All in all, a productive evening, and when El suggested they retire early to their bedroom to check out more paint swatches, Peter learned something else. Who knew picking out paint colors could get so steamy?

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal had asked Peter whether they should make Teresa aware of their suspicions, and Peter advised against it. At this stage, they didn't want to do anything to alert Sheffield, and they had no way of knowing how Teresa would react. If Sheffield called her to discuss a painting, she needed to sound completely sincere.

With surveillance of the suspect proceeding smoothly, Neal was able to keep his Thursday schedule at Columbia. He reported to Myra that Teresa would apply for a subsidized apartment, but didn't mention anything about her work for Sheffield. He hoped Myra wouldn't have to hear about the tangled mess her former student had fallen into.

Although the agents didn't have a warrant for wiretaps, Mozzie had no such restrictions. He'd embraced Teresa as a fellow alum and taken it upon himself to aid her cause by hacking into Sheffield's phone system. Neal suspected an assist from Aidan on the technical aspects but was too grateful to ask for details.

When Mozzie intercepted a call to Raymond's home number, Neal was uncertain about how Peter would react. Unexpectedly, instead of a lecture, all Neal got was a little joshing. Peter even volunteered to meet with the Mafia boss without having to be coaxed into it.

Lately it had grown increasingly apparent that Peter was much more easygoing than normal. Neal attributed the change to his boss no longer being saddled with the Steinar Wolff alias. In this instance, Special Agent Peter Burke would pay an official friendly visit to Pasolini, accompanied by his trusted consultant.

Normally, Peter wouldn't consider cooperating with someone like the Mafia kingpin, but this time his quarry was a shark. The Pasolini family engaged in illegal activities but reportedly they didn't condone violence except under extreme circumstances. This was a time when the enemy of my enemy dictum readily applied.

Promptly at ten o'clock on Friday morning, Neal and Peter walked up the steps to the entrance of Raymond's mansion on Staten Island. It was located on Todt Hill. The heavily wooded neighborhood was one of the most exclusive residential areas of the island. Paul Castellano of the Gambino crime family used to own a mansion nearby. Raymond's taste apparently ran to the eclectic. The house was a fusion of Italian Renaissance with other styles. The facade was finished in warm peach stucco reminiscent of Tuscany. The windows had a decided art deco appearance as did the massive entrance. 

"No wandering off," Peter cautioned as they neared the door. "If Pasolini doesn't volunteer to show us the painting, we can't insist."

"No harm in my eyes taking a stroll, I assume?" Neal asked nonchalantly.

Peter smiled tolerantly. "They may bump into mine doing the same thing."

When Peter rang the doorbell, a middle-aged woman in a starched uniform led them into an airy salon with marble floors and Italian contemporary furniture in muted shades of pewter and terracotta.

Raymond was dressed casually in a rumpled white shirt and baggy trousers. His face looked older than his forty-three years. Worry lines appeared to be permanently etched onto his forehead—a good reminder for Peter to relax more.

Raymond only took a fleeting glance at their badges. Neal knew Peter wished he'd linger. There was no question Peter was glowing from not having to wear the Steinar Wolff disguise.

"What's this about a fraud?" Raymond demanded.

"We're on the trail of a trafficker in art forgeries," Peter said. "The suspect has access to an excellent forger and has been passing off the works as genuine. The victims believe they're buying masterpieces with the transactions often costing millions of dollars. Your name appeared on a list of potential clients."

"And you want to know if I purchased anything recently?" Raymond said bluntly, his worry lines increasing. He was beginning to resemble a bloodhound. Raymond turned to Neal. "Why did you come along?"

"I'm an art expert. If you think you may have been victimized, it's my job to let you know if your fears are well placed."

Raymond scowled, rubbing his forehead. "You've given me your warning, now—"

Peter raised a hand, cutting him off. "We're not here to accuse you of anything. Our interest is purely in catching the trafficker. Your cooperation will be appreciated by the Bureau and duly noted in your file."

Raymond cast him a sharp look. "I bet my file makes fascinating reading."

Peter nodded calmly. "It would benefit from a favorable comment."

"How do I know you won't double-cross me?"

Raymond was playing to Peter's strength. Nobody came across as more sincere and ethical than he did.

Peter whipped out his badge once more and placed it on the palm of his hand. "This is not just an ID. My badge means that I'm a man of integrity, and I'll give you a square deal. When a crime is committed, it shouldn't matter if the victim is a young kid, a trash collector, or a movie star. My focus is catching the perpetrator and ensuring they don't victimize others. Will you help us or not?"

Peter had tossed the ball in Raymond's court. Would he be a team player? When Raymond hesitated, Neal knew Peter had won him over. Sometimes the best con is not running one.

Raymond gave a slight nod. There weren't any words of gratitude or appreciation, but they weren't necessary. "My wife is very fond of Georgia O'Keeffe's works. Recently I was able to acquire one of her paintings. There's another on order from my contact." He turned to Neal. "Can you detect O'Keeffe forgeries?"

"Yes," Neal said, opting to play it low key. "If you give us permission, I can use a non-invasive spectroscopic analysis to confirm my initial findings."

Raymond eyed him appraisingly. "Proud words, kid. You better live up to them."

He led them into a sitting room. Neal was immediately drawn to the painting on the wall. Against the pale gray tones of the room, its vibrant hues of green, blue and sienna were a magnet to the eyes. Neal recognized the work at once. _Pond in the Woods_ was one of the Adirondacks series—a swirling vortex of colors drawing the observer into the center light. Neal had studied the painting the previous year for one of his courses. He hadn't noticed before the ominous quality to the central pond. What was generally considered to be the reflection of a woodland in the water could also seem like jagged teeth—a clue to the shark hidden within?

The band upon band of color wasn't unlike the way a wormhole might appear to his character in Diana's Arkham Files stories. The closer he approached the painting, the more mesmerizing it became.

"Neal?" Peter's murmur startled him. "Everything okay?"

Neal nodded, drawing in a quick breath as he shook off the momentary sense of vertigo. He'd been up late the previous night tweaking his paintings for the exhibition. Did the Burke pickle-juice cure work for paint-fume hangovers?

Neal knew how he'd prove the painting was a forgery the moment he saw it, but his opinion would be more valued if he appeared to give a careful analysis first. He whipped out his magnifying glass to add to the effect as he studied every inch of the surface. At the end of a reasonable length of time, he turned around to face Raymond, standing in front of the work as if he were addressing the audience at one of his master's workshops.

"Georgia O'Keeffe used primarily commercial pastels, but she also mixed her own. She was particularly fond of a red pigment which has a relatively high lead content. The pigment has caused major headaches for curators because as it oxidizes, it darkens in color."

Neal pointed to a section of the whirlpool. "Note the band of bright sienna in the center. This is a custom shade O'Keeffe made using red pigment. For a work dating back to the early 1920s, it should be significantly darker."

Raymond's face flushed when Neal entered into a technical analysis of lead oxidation. Those long nights discussing pigment compositions with Mozzie hadn't been in vain. He could hear his friend in his head now as he overwhelmed Raymond with chemical virtuosity.

When he stopped to take a breath, Raymond fixed his eyes on the painting and scowled. "What's involved in that analysis you mentioned?"

"Think of it as an x-ray for paintings," Neal said. "It will reveal the composition of the various pigments. I'm also willing to bet that the forger didn't use a thin charcoal drawing as the first step. It's a technique O'Keeffe always used, but is only revealed by spectroscopy." He knew he was right. In the painting Teresa was working on, there was no preliminary drawing.

Raymond was no fool. He agreed to their recommendations without further protest. Not only did Raymond finger Sheffield as the seller, but he was also willing to participate in baiting a trap. The painting Sheffield had offered to acquire for him was the one Teresa was currently working on in her apartment. Having only the word of a mobster versus that of a well-respected gallery owner would make for a risky court trial. But now Peter had sufficient evidence to obtain approval for a wiretap. With Raymond's cooperation, they should be able to record Sheffield discussing the transaction, and it would be case closed.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

That evening, Neal celebrated the day's success by attending the opening reception for Janet's new exhibition at the Cecile Gallery. Janet's inspiration for her clothing-as-art show _Gossamer Wings_ was dragonflies. Neal was sorely tempted to drop by Sheffield's gallery on the way, but he resisted. The evening was his lone break from the frenzy of approaching paper deadlines, paintings to be finished, and props assistance mandated by his cousin Angela.

Her kids' musical _Lost in Neverland_ was due to open in two weeks. She'd promised to keep Neal too busy to miss Sara, and you couldn't fault her for lack of trying. She'd also roped in Henry and Eric to help out. Their goal was to finish all the props on Saturday so that the following week the kids could rehearse with them in place.

Folding screens were being used for most of the backdrops since portability was essential. Angela intended to take the show on the road, visiting classrooms throughout the city. For her doctorate in ethnomusicology, she was specializing in using folk music for outreach education. The simple musical instruments used in Neverland were based on Appalachian folk instruments. Kids could quickly learn how to play them.

Neal had yet to hear any of the music or read the script. He, along with everyone else, would need to wait for the premiere performance on May 6. The grandparents, Noelle and her husband Joe, as well as Angela's mom Paige were all coming to New York to attend. Two weeks later, if the stars were correctly aligned, Neal would finally secure two master's diplomas. Angela would also receive a master's.

When Neal reported for duty in the basement of Dodge Hall, Angela was still waxing euphoric about Janet's exhibit which had opened the previous evening. She was dancing around the room, wearing a gossamer mask supplied by Janet for Tinker Bell. "My next production must include dragonflies," she declared. "I found some Navajo legends about them. If I made them fierce enough, I bet the toughest street kids will be enthusiastic about them."

"Janet's dragonflies looked more like elves to me," Michael confessed. "All that gauzy, sparkly fabric? When you're done with dragonflies, maybe you should create a musical where elves ride on unicorns—"

"—through forests of glitter!" Angela added enthusiastically.

Henry and Eric exchanged grins with Neal. How long would it be before Angela and Michael started having their own dragonflies and elves? Their wedding was a little over a month away. Michael had already placed their names on the list for a larger apartment in a graduate house.

Neal scanned the group of volunteers. Eric and Henry were sawing a cutout of a palm tree. Michael was painting a crocodile mask.

"What would you like me to do?" Neal asked.

"The backdrop for the crocodile," Angela said promptly, pointing to an unpainted set of screens. "I want dark, turbulent waters full of foreboding and a twilight sky. The creepier the better."

Michael chuckled. "You're describing something out of Lovecraft. Neal can probably visualize that in his sleep."

Neal gave a small sigh. Lately, it seemed everywhere he looked, he was seeing sea monsters. Still, it was hard to be gloomy around this crowd. Henry had brought along the latest CD by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Soon they were all singing along. Neal got out his paints and set to work. Gradually he immersed himself in the ocean scene, painting wave crests which reminded him of what Georgia O'Keeffe had done with trees in _Pond in the Woods_. The waves could evoke shark teeth, a croc's jaws, or whatever else the viewer's imagination supplied. That O'Keeffe work continued to puzzle him. Why had it provoked such a strong reaction? Was it because the vortex reminded him of a wormhole? Or had he'd been thinking of the Shark of SoHo? Sharks never used to bother him.

What he needed to do was change the reference. He'd done it with octopuses, forcing himself to think of cuddly creatures like Pearl in _Finding Nemo_. Could he do the same with sharks? Hard to imagine a cuddly shark. He'd once faked being killed by a great white shark. That wasn't helpful.

Neal took a breath and refocused. Did he know of any empathetic sharks? Perhaps those toothy sharks in _Finding Nemo_ could fill the bill. They first appeared scary but then revealed themselves to be fish-friendly. Bruce the Shark, for instance. What if Neal renamed him Henry? Hard to be afraid of a shark named Henry. Neal began to hum "La Mer." He'd always liked that song and was delighted when he found out the theme song for the movie was based on it. Any creature associated with "La Mer" couldn't be that fearful.

He tended to block out extraneous sounds when he was painting, but gradually a low-pitched ticking penetrated his artistic bubble. He spun around to see Michael dangling an alarm clock.

"Is that for the crocodile?" Neal asked.

He nodded. "Travis helped me customize the sound. I'm giving it a road test."

"That tick-tock is making me hungry," Henry complained. "Isn't it lunchtime yet? Not all of us are meant to be starving artists, you know."

Angela was busy at the electronic keyboard, humming to herself while playing. She was listening to the music through headphones and doing an excellent job of ignoring her cousin's comment.

Henry strode over and removed her headphones. "We're taking a break to bring in lunch. What do you want?"

"Sushi," she said promptly.

"Barbecue it is. We'll be right back."

Over pulled-pork sandwiches, Angela said, "I have an announcement to make. I was waiting for Michael to tell you, but since he's overly modest, I'll brag for him. He was awarded the Hilla Rebay Fellowship at the Guggenheim!"

"Congratulations!" Neal turned to Henry and Eric. "The fellowship provides training and a stipend for one lucky candidate to study at the Guggenheim in New York as well as their sister museums in Spain and Venice. Often the fellowship results in permanent employment." He looked at Michael. "That's clear proof your future is on a rocket-ship trajectory!"

"I'm counting on your and Eric's help so I don't blow up on the launch pad," Michael cautioned. "Fluency in both Italian and Spanish is required. They took pity on my abysmal skill but warned me I'll need to pass a certification test."

"I'd like to take part in the Spanish lessons," Henry said. "Italian is still out of my league."

"I want to sit in too," Angela said. "Many of the kids I work with are more comfortable speaking Spanish than English."

Leaving Neal to lead Italian boot camp? Not a bad activity for the summer. He wouldn't have any coursework. With Sara still in London, he'd be looking for something to fill up the evenings.

"Next year Neal may wish to apply for a similar program," Angela said. "Michael told me the Metropolitan Museum has several available. As a third-year student, he should have an excellent chance."

"Is that something you'd like to do?" Henry asked. "You'd have to leave your job at White Collar."

"But you were probably planning to anyway, right?" Angela asked. "Once you have your PhD, you won't want to work as a lowly consultant." She bit her lip. "That didn't come out right. I know your work with the FBI is important. It just seems like a waste of a doctorate."

"Which Neal won't have for several years," Michael reminded her gently. "I'd be very hesitant to quit. I don't intend to leave Manhattan Geeks anytime soon. Their pay is great—much more than I'll get from the Guggenheim stipend."

"And you know your art expertise is highly valued at White Collar," Eric said. "The way I look at it, you have a great situation where you can feed your art itch and also work on cases."

"I wish Win-Win was a better match for your skills," Henry said a little wistfully. "Maybe I should propose starting an art crimes branch."

Neal laughed. "Better hold off till I'm further along on that doctorate or someone else will snap it up. I know you were hoping we'd work together at Win-Win," he added. "I was too."

"Yeah, but that was before you started Columbia."

"Neal still has plenty of time to decide what his future career will look like," Angela said. "That was my bad to bring it up."

"I'm glad you did," Neal said. "My advisor asks for an update every time I see him. Next week I intend to tell him I'm still lost in Neverland."

Michael laughed. "A reminder for us lost boys to get back to work."

They returned to their assigned tasks, but Neal was starting to believe he'd swallowed the ticking clock meant for the crocodile. Mozzie liked to expound on cons having expiration dates. The same was true for Columbia and his art studio. If he had a better handle on what the Bureau options were, the road ahead might be less murky. Laura Jemison had been selected to take over the leadership of the Art Crimes Unit. She'd be in the office on Monday and had scheduled a meeting with him. Her perspective could bring clarity or make him feel even more lost.

* * *

_Notes: I placed a[pin of the Georgia O'Keeffe work](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/398639004520405324/) which Neal found so fascinating on The Shark of SoHo Pinterest board. There are rumblings of changes coming to Neal's life. Will June decide to sell the mansion? What's in store for Neal's career? Will he continue in the graduate program after getting his master's? All these will be covered in the next several stories, and one question will be answered in the next chapter._

_Story Visuals and Music:[The Shark of SoHo](https://www.pinterest.com/silbrith/the-shark-of-soho/) board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website: [pinterest.com/caffreycon](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)_   
_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: [pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com)_   
_Twitter:[@silbrith](https://twitter.com/silbrith)_


	3. Troubled Waters

**Federal Building. Monday, April 24, 2006.**

When Peter got the text message early on Monday morning, Neal had yet to show up at work. At seven-thirty, he was likely still on the subway. Peter sent a text, directing him to come straight to his office upon his arrival.

Peter had originally planned to brief Hughes about Sheffield but that could wait. His first appointment, with the new head of art crimes, Laura Jemison, was scheduled for ten o'clock, providing plenty of time for the requested meeting.

"Which one threw the curveball, Sheffield or Pasolini?" Neal asked when he appeared at Peter's door.

"Neither. Annina Brandel wants to speak with us."

Neal's eyes widened. "The federal marshal? Do you know what it's about?"

"She said she'd rather explain in person." Peter glanced at his watch. "She'll be here in a few minutes."

"I doubt the subject's Mom," Neal said. "Noelle said she'd already received the shipment of personal effects."

Peter agreed. Annina was the point of contact for the WITSEC program currently responsible for the protection of Ellen Parker and Neal's father James Bennett. Annina was a dedicated professional who'd kept an open mind about Neal when he started with the Bureau. They'd met with her in Baltimore shortly before Meredith's funeral. If Annina had a question about Meredith, she would have contacted Neal directly. Since she made the request through Peter, he assumed it would be regarding either Ellen or James. 

"Did Noelle have much to go through?" Peter asked.

"No, I gather when Mom decided to cut all ties with the family last year, she gave away or discarded practically all the personal mementos she'd collected over the years. Noelle said she received a small box of jewelry from the marshals. She's bringing it with her on her next trip. There aren't any antique family pieces. Noelle thought I might like to have them."

"Have you heard anything from Ellen?"

Neal nodded. "I got a letter of condolences. It was waiting for me when I returned home from the funeral. Her husband Mike had probably sent it. Ellen said she and Mike are doing well and very happy. She reminded me to avoid contacting them."

When Annina arrived, she got straight to the point. "I heard from my contact in Florida that James has slipped away from WITSEC. A local marshal had informed him of Meredith's death. Our best estimate is that James took off a week afterward. Neal, I'm concerned that his flight puts both you and him at additional risk."

Neal frowned. "It's been twenty-four years since Mom and I entered the program. I question whether WITSEC is still necessary, but if Ellen wants to remain in the program, fine. As for James . . . If he wants to reach out to me, frankly I'd welcome it. I'd like to finally get to know my father."

Peter sympathized with Neal's attitude. He'd never mentioned a desire to meet James but how could he not want to, especially since he'd just lost his mother?

She took a breath. "I expected that would be your attitude. I admit that at first, I had the same doubts. But I worked with local agents on a reassessment of the car accident your mother had. Although the police say there's no evidence of foul play, it can't be entirely ruled out."

"When was the last time James's location was known?" Peter asked, his gut lurching at the thought Neal's mom could have been murdered.

"The local marshal in charge of his case went to see him on April 8, the day after the car accident. That's the last time he was seen. A week later, the marshal attempted to make a follow-up visit. That's when he discovered James had vanished."

"Are you certain he took flight?" Neal challenged. "He could have been abducted instead."

"Or killed," Annina added. "We considered both possibilities but the evidence points to James leaving on his own volition. Up to then, he'd been living in a furnished apartment. Before he left, he cleared out his possessions." When Neal started to speak, she quickly added, "I know that doesn't prove anything on its own, but he also closed his bank account."

Neal raked the hair on his side of his head. "The same people who killed Mom could be after him. Have you found any clues as to where he's gone?"

Annina shook her head. "So far we don't have anything to go on. The local marshal had been keeping in regular contact with James and had met a few of his friends. She interviewed them all afterward. One of them said James seemed distracted. The previous week, they'd gone out to a bar where James made some comment about how it had to stop and how he didn't want any more blood on his hands. The friend was at a loss to explain what James was referring to."

Peter rested his chin on his propped-up hands as the significance sank in. "James may have held himself partially responsible for Meredith's death."

"That's what I believe," Annina agreed. "Assuming that's true, he may be worried about you, Neal. He could attempt to approach you. If he does, you need to notify us. James may think he can elude his enemy, but I wouldn't count on it."

"All right, but I want something in return," Neal said. "You must have a recent photo of my dad on file. I don't even know what he looks like. If I saw him on the street, I wouldn't recognize him."

"I should be able to provide that," she agreed. "There's ample justification."

"I want a copy too," Peter said. "Ellen should have one as well. James may try to contact her."

"Another marshal is speaking with her this morning," Annina assured him.

Neal strode over to the window and looked down as if James could be on the street below. Peter knew the thoughts that were swirling through his mind. When Neal received word about Meredith's death, everyone assured him it was an unfortunate accident and there was no connection to WITSEC. What role, if any, had James played? Did Neal fault the marshals for not having protected her? Peter had the same questions.

"For the moment, assume James was right about Meredith," Peter said, turning to Annina. "Why now? Had she been indiscreet about her identity?"

"Not to our knowledge. When news broke about James, marshals interviewed Meredith's co-workers. One of them reported she'd mentioned taking a trip to New York."

Neal spun around. "She was coming to see me?"

"It's impossible to know for sure," she hedged. "A check with the airlines revealed that she'd made reservations to fly here after work on April 28. She'd reserved the hotel through the airlines as part of a package."

Neal's expression grew bleak. "What was the hotel?"

"The Broadway International."

He exhaled. "That's close to the university. I'd mentioned the art exhibition to her in a letter. It opens on April 29." He swept his hair off his forehead. "She was planning to attend," he added in a low voice.

"I didn't know about the exhibition," she said. "That does increase the probability. I'm sorry, Neal."

"God . . ." His words trailed off as he shook his head.

"My question stands," Peter said, forcing the conversation back onto the case, giving Neal a chance to gain control of his emotions. "If this was deliberate, someone went to a lot of trouble to discover Meredith's plans. Presumably they could have done so anytime. Was there a trigger that caused the event?"

"James's enemy may have felt threatened. As to why, I don't know." Annina's face grew troubled. "My personal belief is that something has happened that caused James's foe to take a renewed interest in what happened so many years ago. Noelle's ex-husband Robert used James's identity. We only grew aware of it in the summer of 2005. James's enemy could have also gotten wind of it. They may be watching Neal now, expecting James to reach out to him."

Peter nodded. Meredith could have simply been the opening salvo—a trap designed to make James come out into the open. Neal could be targeted as well if they were trying to keep his father quiet. Protective custody wasn't an option at the moment, but they'd all have to stay sharp.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal had a half-hour between the meeting with Annina and the appointment with the new art crimes head to get his head on straight.

It wasn't enough time.

Lately he'd thought about trying to contact his dad, but not like this, especially not when there was a chance his mom had been murdered. Why had James fled? Did he believe one of the marshals had leaked information on Meredith's whereabouts? That could provide sufficient justification for someone who'd been protected under the WITSEC program ever since he was freed from prison in 2001.

Could the marshals be trusted to conduct the investigation? It hadn't worked well for the Bureau. August Hitchum and Garrett Fowler had been Bureau agents. They were also stooges for Adler and had tried to frame Neal. Without the efforts of his friends who'd worked outside normal channels, both at the Bureau and at Win-Win, their crimes wouldn't have been discovered.

Was it time to mount something similar for James? When Neal decided to sign a contract with the FBI, the marshals had warned him not to attempt any searches for his dad in the databases. The implication was clear that they believed there could be informants working for his dad's adversaries. So, no investigating using Bureau resources. But there were other options.

Neal had only a few brief moments to contact Henry, who promised to relay the news to Noelle. They agreed to discuss it over lunch near Henry's office.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The lunch spot Henry had suggested was a favorite with both him and Neal. It served gourmet sandwiches that were fancy enough to please his half-brother's elevated taste, and he also gave their coffee high marks. Neal had already glugged down his first mug and was doing the same to a refill.

"The new boss didn't tell me anything I don't already know," Neal said, ignoring his tarragon chicken on croissant. "If I want to work on art crimes, I should move to D.C."

"I gather she's not keen on the idea of a branch office in New York?"

Neal shook his head. "What with the increased focus on terrorism, her budget's been cut. Congress doesn't get worked up about art thefts even though the proceeds often go to arms dealers and drug traffickers. I already knew I'd go back to forty-hour workweeks in May, but Jemison said that I shouldn't bother to apply for reduced hours when classes resume in September. I got the distinct impression that as far as she's concerned, a doctorate doesn't add to my value."

"How does your work on the Interpol art crimes task force enter into the equation?"

"For now, it's our ace in the hole. Interpol is much more focused on art crimes. Any work Peter and I do for them is reimbursed, plus they pay a fee to the Bureau to have us on their team. Jemison is willing to go along with the status quo for the moment. She recognizes that the Mansfeld case is ongoing." Neal took a breath. "As she revamps the art crimes unit, she's considering allocating local experts to the various regions. New York would be one of them."

"That sounds encouraging," Henry hazarded.

Neal made a face. "It might be but if I'm interested in the job, I'd have to first serve an assignment in D.C. I asked her how long the assignment would run for and she refused to commit."

"Would Columbia agree to an extension?"

"Probably not. Their preference is for candidates to work full-time on their doctorates. My advisor had to apply for a waiver to allow me to work at the FBI."

"That seems a little harsh," Henry objected, "especially given the cost of living in New York."

Neal shrugged unhappily. "The stipend paid by the university along with teaching assignments is supposed to make outside employment unnecessary. As a practical matter, though, most everyone has at least a part-time job on the side."

"Was Peter with you at the meeting?" Henry asked, not wanting to belabor the point. Neal had already been given special treatment when he was admitted into the program. The idea of asking for additional waivers was probably distasteful.

"He was," Neal confirmed. "Peter also met with Jemison separately. After she left for her appointment with Hughes, Peter called me into his office. He's feeling the pressure too. For his career to advance, he should move to D.C. That's not something he's looking forward to. El's career is established here. Plus, Peter likes New York. I don't think he wants to relocate."

"Perhaps he can take over Hughes's job someday," Henry suggested.

Neal nodded absently, cutting his sandwich into small sections. "But Peter's at the age that he's supposed to gain experience by working in different areas. If he stays at the same job for too long, he'll run the risk of being passed over for promotions." He winced. "You've heard enough of my gripes."

"Plus you need to eat that sandwich, not make a puzzle out of it . . . unless you're trying to turn it into a collage?"

Neal chuckled. "I could start a new art movement—sandwich expressionism. What's your take on James?"

Henry laid out his thoughts and wasn't surprised to see Neal nodding in agreement. Whether or not Meredith's car wreck had been a deliberate act of murder was in a sense irrelevant. James thought it was no accident. Henry didn't mention the slight chance that James could have instigated the crime. It wasn't impossible but until a motive could be supplied, discussing the hypothetical wouldn't bring any clarity.

"I could easily justify using Win-Win resources to work on the case," Henry offered. "When my dad appropriated James's identity, his action made it, in a sense, our responsibility."

"Can you keep Peter out of the loop?"

"Yeah, but why? Aren't we supposed to be more open these days?"

"I'm calling this an exception. Annina warned us both to not pursue the matter. If there is a mole feeding information to powers aligned against James, they could exact retribution on Peter for meddling. His career could be damaged."

"The same can be said about you," Henry pointed out.

Neal smiled. "They won't catch me."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Peter called El to suggest having dinner at Donatella's, their favorite Italian restaurant, she knew he felt like celebrating. It had been two days since his meeting with the new arts crime head. Was a change of job in the works?

Peter didn't reveal the reason till they'd taken seats at their corner table and the waiter had uncorked the Barolo. "To successful endings!" Peter declared, clinking his glass with El's.

"You arrested Sheffield already?"

He nodded, a broad smile breaking out. "It was a team effort. We had blanket surveillance on him. This morning we secured a recording of him contacting Teresa asking about the status of the painting. When he called Pasolini to confirm the delivery date, well, let's just say this is one shark who won't be roaming the high seas any longer."

"Congratulations! Is Teresa in trouble?"

"No, and the phone call confirmed it. Clearly she believed her paintings were being sold as copies. We brought her into the office today to explain Sheffield's scam and she's offered to testify. The best news from her perspective is that Neal persuaded Pasolini to buy the O'Keeffe copy from her."

"How did he manage to do that?" El asked, treading carefully. Peter probably wasn't thrilled about Neal negotiating anything with a mob boss. On the other hand, Peter knew about it. A hopeful sign that Neal had asked for permission first?

"Neal arranged for Pasolini, his wife, and Teresa to have lunch together. He explained it as a way for them to meet the artist who'd painted _Pond in the Woods_ for them. Teresa is going to add her signature to both paintings so there won't be any chance of them being considered forgeries. For now, she'll have to wait to finalize the transaction since the paintings will be used as evidence."

Peter took a satisfied swig of wine. "I expect once the arrest is made public, there will be many victims coming out of the woodwork, worried that their art is a forgery. By the time this goes to trial, there could be several witnesses in addition to Pasolini."

"Your entire team must be celebrating tonight," El said. "One of the best parts for me is that you didn't have to con anyone. Your old alias of Steinar Wolff was not needed. It's a good omen that Neal didn't need to con anyone either."

He nodded. "This could be a harbinger of future career options. As you know, Jemison painted a rather bleak picture for us continuing to investigate art crimes."

"Has Neal discussed it with you further?"

"He hasn't commented much about it, but he mentioned Sherkov is pressuring him to come up with a proposal on how he intends to use the doctorate. I'm sure this will weigh in his decision." Peter absently gazed over at a mural of Tuscany painted on the wall beside the kitchen. "Honestly, I don't know if the Bureau is a good long-term solution for him."

"And that's not his only decision to make," she said. "How long does he want to continue doing undercover work? Will that start to grow old?"

"I've wondered the same thing. Should I push him to explore other options? If Neal wants to make a career with the Bureau, the best match for his talents is Jemison's art crimes task force."

"While your future lies elsewhere," El said as if he needed the reminder.

Peter nodded. "Hughes is looking for openings where I could broaden my experience. But if I move out of White Collar, I'll have to relinquish my membership on the Interpol art crimes task force. The odds are high that the new team leader won't be interested in investigating art crimes."

"You know Neal would be horrified if you applied the brakes to your career because of him."

"I know and if I'm to stay on the managerial track, I'll need to move on."

"But is that what you want?"

"I don't know," he hedged. "Nothing will happen for a while. For now, let's pause and celebrate the moment. That Tuscan steak is calling to me, and I sense tiramisu in our future."

El tried to cast aside her doubts. When Peter initially described his discussion with Hughes, he'd been much more upbeat about career opportunities in the Bureau. Was that primarily for her sake? Neal clearly had some decisions to make as well. She recalled the initial telephone conversation she'd had with him when he and Peter reached an understanding in Saint Louis. She'd gotten the impression that Neal only accepted the offer of employment because he thought he'd be working with Peter. He wasn't joining the FBI. He was signing up to work with her husband. If Peter was no longer leading White Collar, would Neal want to stay on?

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal took a break from adjusting his paintings to survey the gallery at Schermerhorn Hall. It was bustling with grad students, all setting up their works. Although graduation was still three weeks off, there was a finality about the exhibition opening that was bittersweet. It was the end of an era.

In a couple of weeks, Richard, Aidan, and Keiko would no longer be at Columbia. Richard wasn't moving away, at least not permanently, but he'd work at the Los Angeles branch of Scima over the summer. Aidan would move with Keiko to Los Angeles immediately after graduation. An art glass studio in Orange County had hired Keiko, and Aidan had secured a position with Scima's sound department. For now, Aidan planned to continue consulting for the cybersecurity firm where he'd been working for the past two years, but how long would he want to moonlight at a second job?

Neal's friends were all pursuing their chosen careers while he still struggled to find his. The only thing he knew for sure was that he wasn't leaving New York. Would the Bureau hold much appeal if Peter were in D.C.? Could he survive on the stipend he was receiving from Columbia? Henry would probably hire him for occasional jobs . . .

"Pre-Raphaelite Expressionism." Keiko gazed thoughtfully at the banner over their alcove and turned to Aidan. "Will the world look back at us as the avant-garde of a new movement?"

Aidan smiled as he arranged chairs in front of the large wall monitor. "Why not? This is the time to dream big."

"Travis will be here later," Richard said, polishing off any hint of a fingerprint from his bronze. "He said he'd come by before the start of the telescope workshop. He'll take videos of the four of us by our pieces. We should get some still shots for our future pages in Wikipedia."

"When this year started, none of us imagined we'd have a common theme," Neal said. "Now we're a movement. I like the trajectory." His moment of gloominess quickly dissipated under the barrage of their enthusiastic daydreaming.

Myra had provided the movement its initial spark. Neal had toyed with the concept of a Pre-Raphaelite-inspired work his first semester at Colombia—back when he hoped to date Sara. When their early romance fizzled, so did the painting. He picked it up later once they started seeing each other and Myra encouraged him to exhibit it. The theme was of a sleeping knight being awakened by Morgan le Fay. Myra had also requested a second work, and Neal had chosen Guinevere at the banks of the Avon River.

Keiko had been inspired by a series of Pre-Raphaelite stained-glass angels to make glass panels of Prince Genji and Lady Murasaki. Aidan's short feature of the angels was also being shown in their alcove. Richard had decided at the last moment to include a contribution. He'd sculpted a bronze of one of the angels transforming into a keres, a Greek death-spirit. The fact that Aidan's feature _Glass Angels_ and Richard's angel were based on real events was a closely guarded secret.

"Will Mozzie be at the opening reception?" Richard asked.

"He better," Aidan declared. "As one of our fellow Musketeers, his attendance is mandatory. I expect him to take his rightful place beside my short feature _Pirates from Beyond_."

"As author of the script, he wouldn't miss it," Neal assured him. "Don't be surprised if he comes equipped with posters to autograph."

Aidan chuckled. "I'm going to miss Athos. Los Angeles will be a dull place without him around."

"I bet we can coax him into visiting us," Keiko said. "How can he resist the lure of Hollywood? Now that he's sold a script to _Doctor Who_ , won't he want to work with American TV producers as well?"

"If nothing else, I'm sure he'll attend your wedding," Neal said. Aidan and Keiko were tying the knot at the end of June. It would be a summer of weddings, starting with Angela and Michael's in late May.

Neal was about to leave for the final inspection of his series of river paintings when his phone buzzed. The text message drove a dagger into his celebratory mood. Sherkov realized he'd be setting up his works in the gallery and requested Neal come to his office on the fourth floor.

It wasn't a surprise that his doctoral advisor was working today. Sherkov was a bachelor. He routinely dropped into Neal's art studio in the evening or on Saturdays. For the past year, Sherkov had enthusiastically teamed up with Myra to attend Neal's master's workshops. His two advisors did their best to stump him with questions no grad student would ever ask.

Neal already knew why Sherkov wanted to see him. The fact that the exhibition was opening in a few hours was immaterial in his eyes. Neal had been procrastinating all semester over the subject of his dissertation. Did Sherkov have to pick today to strike?

"Anything wrong?" Richard murmured. "You've been staring at your phone like it's the grim reaper."

"That's an apt analogy. Sherkov wants to see me."

"Ouch." Richard grimaced. "Tell him you can't stay long. You promised to help with my bronzes."

"Yeah, and remember, you offered to coach me for my presentation," Aidan said.

"You're my coach as well," Keiko added. "And I need it much more than Aidan. You know how flustered I get before crowds."

Neal was touched by their offers of support. It was also rather pathetic. Still there was no denying that at the moment he'd rather spar with Keller than a certain art history professor.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

El dropped Peter off at Columbia midday. She was working an event during the afternoon and would return to the campus in time for the opening reception of the exhibition. Most everyone from White Collar as well as other friends and family would also attend.

Peter, along with Travis and Mozzie, would spend the afternoon volunteering at the kids' telescope workshop on campus. The kids would use their finished telescopes at astronomy camp this summer. Would his child attend the workshops someday? It was likely still a few years off given that El wasn't pregnant yet. In the meantime, Neal was available for Peter to practice his parenting skills on. Perhaps that was why Neal seemed as excited as they were for Baby Burke to arrive.

When Travis mentioned at work he wanted to use the time before the workshop started to take videos of the pre–reception flurry, Peter decided to drop in on the group as well.

He hoped the exhibition was distracting Neal from any plans to search for his father. He'd appeared to accept Annina's request. When Peter discussed it with him afterward, he hadn't protested the restrictions nor had he been inclined to discuss James. Was that a warning sign or simply that he was trying to focus on the upcoming meeting with Jemison?

These were the times Peter particularly wished Sara's transfer had come through. When Peter talked with El about his career options, she'd supplied a much needed perspective. Sara could provide similar support. Talking over the phone was only a partial substitute. On other matters, Peter liked to think he could supply insight, but when it came to the subject of Neal's career at the Bureau, Peter's own path was too murky for him to provide much guidance.

When Peter arrived at the gallery, Neal was nowhere to be seen.

"Sherkov asked to speak with him," Aidan explained. "He's been gone for an hour. He should be back soon."

Peter decided to hang around. A Saturday meeting seemed unusual. As graduation approached, it was a puzzle if Neal was more jittery about the upcoming exhibition, his thesis, or the subject for his dissertation. It had been telling that Neal had asked Richard for a second voodoo doll to suspend from his whiteboard at the studio. But it was likely wishful thinking to believe Neal was so overwhelmed that he wouldn't squeeze out some time to stress about James.

It didn't take long for his complicated consultant to show up, and from the bounce in his stride, one or more of those stresses appeared to have abated.

Peter wasn't the only one who noticed. Everyone crowded around.

"Sherkov didn't eat your lunch?" Aidan demanded.

Neal's smile threatened to split his face. "He made me an offer I couldn't refuse. When I got to his office, Myra was there too. They want me to continue the master workshops at least through next year and potentially beyond. And to sweeten the offer, they're letting me keep my studio at no charge!"

Keiko's eyes widened. "And you won't have any other teaching duties?"

Neal shook his head. "This will be in lieu of that. The best part is that Myra and Sherkov talked at length about the need for an interdisciplinary approach to art. Too often art history students have little to no understanding of artists' techniques. They emphasized the need to include the craftsmanship which goes into producing a painting. I may even be able to use the workshops as research for a dissertation about a new approach to art history."

"You mean we won't get to listen to you groan about a dissertation topic?" Travis mocked, arching his eyebrows. "How will I recognize you?"

Neal grinned sheepishly. "Point taken. In the future, I'll keep my moans to myself."

That answered one question. The chance of Neal accepting a transfer to D.C. was nil. But one question still loomed large. Was that what Peter wished for himself too?

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal floated on an artistic cloud for the rest of the day. By the time the reception opened to the public, the contradictory paths in his life appeared to be merging. More and more, his future was assuming the familiar outline of what he'd grown accustomed to—a blend of disparate elements that somehow worked together. That diversity was reflected in his guests. Besides family members, June, and the White Collar team, Billy Feng and his daughter Maggie were there along with Chef Jacques from La Palette. Both Billy and Jacques had carved out new careers after leaving the life. Mozzie, although he might not admit it, was doing the same thing.

Most of Neal's paintings were displayed together as his Rivers collection. He'd painted the Mississippi, Rhone, Seine, Miskatonic, and Hudson rivers. The final work showed the conflux of the East and Hudson rivers as viewed from the roof of the Federal Building. Another blending of the streams, just like his life.

"You've come a long way, mon frère," Mozzie murmured, coming up beside him, glass in hand. "My personal preference is for the Miskatonic. I should commission you to paint the Thames. What with Sara living in London and my burgeoning career with _Doctor Who_ , it's a natural progression."

"I hope neither one of you will be in London for long."

"I suspect you're right. New York's charms will make me eager to return home." Mozzie glanced over at El and Peter who were talking with Richard and Travis. "Did the suit remark on the shared theme of the paintings?"

"I don't think he caught the inner meaning. They're expressionist works—not Peter's forte." Neal's initial idea had been to depict rivers he'd run along when he decided to run away to start a new life. The Miskatonic and the merged rivers were the lone exceptions.

"You could have called the series _Aquatic Fission_ ," Mozzie suggested. "Your next phase I predict will be _Aquatic Fusion_."

Neal smiled. "I'll keep it in mind. What's your next phase going to be?"

"Time travel."

"What do you mean by that?" Neal asked, eyeing him warily. Was Mozzie slipping yet again into his Arkham character?

"I'll drop by June's tomorrow. You'll find out then."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"And that's all he divulged?" Sara asked incredulously.

"Yep, I have to wait till tomorrow for enlightenment." Neal toed off his shoes and dropped onto the couch. It was well past midnight but Sara was an early riser, and he was too wound up to sleep. After the reception, June had hosted a dinner party for friends and family. There'd been singing and toasts. Henry had sung "Breakaway." Neal and June had belted out "Over the Rainbow," making Angela exclaim her next musical should be based on _The Wizard of Oz_.

And soon Sara would feel like she'd been at the events too since Travis had taken videos both during the reception and the after-party.

"I wonder if Mozzie is referring to another script for _Doctor Who_ ," Sara speculated.

"That would make sense. He's heading to London soon to serve as a consultant during the filming of his episode."

"Did you tell Peter about the letter from Klaus?" she asked.

"It was a discussion topic with both Tricia and him at work on Friday," he confirmed. "They're inclined to take it at face value. Klaus seemed sincere about wanting to see the exhibition. He didn't need to confirm that he'd attended the exhibition last year, but he did."

"I like to think that was a goodwill gesture too," she said. "What did they think about the fact that he and his ex-wife Chantal are exchanging letters?"

"They view it as a positive and are discounting the possibility it's a ruse to curry favor. Klaus is reaching out. He's also corresponding with his parents. I wish I knew if his new attitude is because Rolf is no longer influencing him. Tricia and Peter signed off on my sending him a copy of the exhibition catalog. I'll also send him photos of my paintings. Do you think I'd be naïve to believe the Leopard can change his spots?"

"Not necessarily," Sara hedged. "You changed your direction, but then you're an exceptional person. I don't have enough information to evaluate Klaus." She hesitated a moment. "Are you asking the same question about James?"

"Just about," he admitted, keeping the level of bitterness to a minimum. "I only have the photo the marshals supplied. The scattered details about what happened may not be accurate. Both of us have seen too many cases where people have been falsely accused."

"I hope you can get answers. Will you be able to leave it to others?"

Neal exhaled. Sara knew him well, and he'd promised to never lie to her. "I've asked Henry to look into it. I agree that the official channels aren't trustworthy, and I don't want to do anything that would hurt Peter's career."

"Does Peter know?"

"Not yet. It would place him in an untenable position. He'd worry about Henry and stew about whether he should let the marshals know. I have no desire to add to Peter's stress."

"I hope you're not blaming yourself for what happened with Meredith."

"If I hadn't sent her the letter, the information about her whereabouts might not have been leaked."

"You have absolutely no way of knowing that," Sara objected. "A spy could have hacked into the marshals' database to discover her location."

Ellen's husband Mike had reached out to Neal and told him the same thing. As a former marshal, Mike understood how the system worked. He urged Neal to leave the case alone, for both Neal and Ellen's sakes. His warning made Neal wonder if it was too dangerous for Henry to investigate. For the moment, there shouldn't be any problem since Henry had promised to confine his activity to cyber searches.

In any case, was it too late to exercise caution? The train had already left the station and was barreling toward them, whether or not they investigated James.

* * *

_Notes: Neal will find out tomorrow what Mozzie meant by time travel. You'll need to wait till next week when I begin posting Penny Exchange. The story is an Arkham Files and Caffrey Conversation crossover and is based on the incidents in Penna's delightful story A Caffrey Christmas Carol._

_Thanks for reading!  
_

_Story Visuals and Music:[The Shark of SoHo](https://www.pinterest.com/silbrith/the-shark-of-soho/) board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website: [pinterest.com/caffreycon](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)_  
_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: [pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com)_  
_Twitter:[@silbrith](https://twitter.com/silbrith)_


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